


the gap of dissonance

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You haven’t been around,” he shoots back. It’s an accusation, and it’s a painfully dull summary for the past few weeks where Enjolras has been out of his mind having to hear about the life of a friend from other friends more entitled to his company. For all he knows, Grantaire has been replaced by a sub-par clone, or an evil twin. It’s still a possibility.</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire only blinks, and leans against the doorframe. “Are you in a bad mood because I haven’t been around for you to take it out on?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the gap of dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say I don't know anything about giving up drinking, except you can't just go cold turkey.
> 
> I'm really nervous about posting this because not only is it my first ExR fic, but it's the first one I've actually finished in, like, so long. So be gentle?  
> I hope you all enjoy reading! Don't hesitate to point out mistakes

Enjolras finds himself face to face with Grantaire for the first time in over a month.

It’s extremely jarring, to say the least.

The wide grin that had graced his face as he opened the door settles into a confused frown, the brightness dims, the clouds swallow the sun.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras blurts, his words rushing out in a pained breath.

“I live here,” Grantaire replies slowly, as though speaking to a small, confused child.

Enjolras is stuck with the sudden thought that his view of Grantaire, now relying on memory, is different and incorrect in all the worst ways. There’s nothing of his sarcasm, his playfulness, his taunts. He isn’t smirking sardonically, or giving Enjolras one of those rare, large smiles whenever he was pleasantly surprised by him.

His eyes are cool and his gaze casual. It disarms Enjolras, who is used to Grantaire’s reciprocal intensity.

“Yeah,” he replies, after too long a beat. “Yeah, of course. You do. Live here, I mean.”

Grantaire bites his lip, and Enjolras’s eyes are drawn to the movement involuntarily. “Joly and Bossuet aren’t here.” There’s a thump from behind the door, telling Enjolras that Grantaire isn’t alone. He wants the door to open; Grantaire steps out of the apartment and closes it behind him.

“Are you okay? I heard you’ve been in a mood lately.”

Enjolras grips his bag strap tighter. _I heard_. He considers leaving; he’s busy, he’s planning one of Lamarque’s rallies and he has to study and for some reason he can’t make his feet move.

“You haven’t been around,” he shoots back. It’s an accusation, and it’s a painfully dull summary for the past few weeks where Enjolras has been out of his mind having to hear about the life of a friend from other friends more entitled to his company. For all he knows, Grantaire has been replaced by a sub-par clone, or an evil twin. It’s still a possibility.

Grantaire only blinks, and leans against the doorframe. “Are you in a bad mood because I haven’t been around for you to take it out on?”

The words only confuse Enjolras. “I don’t - It’s got nothing to do with you,” he replies, scowling. “Why did you leave?”

Any openness in Grantaire’s expression that may have developed since opening the door disappears. His eyes become hard, and his mouth a neutral line. “None of your business.”

“None of my business?” Enjolras repeats, not understanding.

This makes him straighten. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, and I sure don’t.”

Enjolras found him slipping away again, and he takes a step forward, but then the door opens from the inside.

“Enjolras,” Éponine says cooly. “Was there anything you wanted? We’re kind of busy.”

Enjolras looks back at Grantaire, at how his shoulders are tensed defensively, and his jaw clenched. He’s missed something.

“No.” He reaches into his bag, acutely aware of two pairs of eyes on him, and takes out a legal pad, holding it out. “These are for Joly. Combeferre’s notes,” he adds uncomfortably when no one takes them. Grantaire reaches out reluctantly, and nods to Enjolras before going back into the apartment.

Éponine sighs. “I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

He opens his mouth, his eyes still on Grantaire’s retreating back through the gap in the door, but she beats him to it.

“He’s not going. Goodnight.”

* * *

Combeferre doesn’t look up from his textbook when Enjolras storms into their apartment.

“Was Joly there?” he asks absently.

“What is wrong with Grantaire?” Enjolras drops his bag on the floor heavily and strides across the living room. “Why did he leave, ‘Ferre? You can’t just - you can’t _abandon_ your _friends_ and then get angry when they ask _why_!”

Combeferre sets his book down and squints at Enjolras. “Did Joly get my notes?”

Enjolras is on a rant now, his hands waving around, his anger and _frustration_ from the past few weeks boiling over. His mind replays Grantaire’s stiff posture, his defensive glare, and it only makes him angrier.

“I don’t even want him back,” Enjolras states hotly. “He can stay away. We - we don’t need his _negativity_ and his pessimism and his… and his _smirks_!”

Courfeyrac walks out of Combeferre’s room, his eyes wild and his hair sleep-mussed. “What now?” he asks. “Who’s deserving of Enjolras’s righteous fury?”

“He went to Joly’s to give him my notes,” Combeferre answers.

“What did _Joly_ do? Joly is amazing!”

Enjolras slumps into an armchair and ignores them both, still silently fuming, slightly tempered by the presence of his two best friends.

“I think this is about Grantaire,” Combeferre answers uncertainly, “it’s hard to make out the direct source.”

Courfeyrac nods mid-yawn and crouches in front of Enjolras. “I’d say only Grantaire can get Enjolras riled up like this.”

Enjolras scowls at him. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “Nothing is wrong.”

“I think you need an emergency appointment with your shrink,” Courfeyrac counters.

“He stopped seeing him when he made a comment about how capitalism is the driving force behind human nature and we would be lost without it.”

“You think you know someone,” Enjolras murmurs. His bad mood is rapidly being healed by the distraction his friends offer, but it’s only replaced by confusion and helplessness. “Is Grantaire okay?”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange glances, and he can’t read them. “As far as I know. Why? What was he like when you saw him?” Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras sighs. “Like I was the last person he wanted to see. Did I do something wrong? I know I can be a bit harsh, but… he’s never left before, not for this long.”

Courfeyrac rubs at his face. “ _Christ_ , it’s too early for this. You’ve left this a little longer than any of us expected.”

“He’s going through some things,” Combeferre answers, shooting Courfeyrac a sharp look.

The fact that he didn’t answer Enjolras’s question directly is worrying; if it wasn’t Enjolras’s fault, he would have told him outright.

“Is it his drinking?”

They both hesitate, and it feels unfair, getting them to talk about their friend, but Enjolras is desperate, and he’s got the sickening feeling that he’s missed something big with Grantaire, and that his distance is his fault.

“It’s a lifestyle change,” Courfeyrac says finally. “He’s quitting everything that was bad for him.”

“Les Amis was bad for him?” Enjolras asks with a confused frown. “Why? We’re his friends.”

Courfeyrac leans against Combeferre, who glances at him fondly before answering. “Enjolras, it’s not my place to say, and it’s not your place to demand answers from him. He’s getting better. He needs space.”

Enjolras brushes a hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to talk about it further, he doesn’t want to think about it. “Joly wasn’t there,” he says after a pause, standing up. “I gave your notes to Grantaire.”

Combeferre nods, but Courfeyrac jumps up from the couch, grabbing Enjolras’s wrist. His gaze is concerned, and he looks serious. “Enjolras, do you like Grantaire?”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre, who gives a slight shrug. “Of course I do.”

“No, I mean… How would you feel if you never saw Grantaire again? If he never called you ‘Apollo’ again? If he called _someone else_ ‘Apollo’?”

“What - Why are you asking me this?”

“Courf…”

Courfeyrac sets his mouth in a stubborn line. “Just answer the question. Think about it, E.”

“ _Courfeyrac_ ,” Combeferre snaps.

“I don’t…Oh.”

Courfeyrac grins triumphantly as the muddled feelings in Enjolras spell it out for him. “I knew it!”

“I like Grantaire,” Enjolras says faintly. Because even the _thought_ of not seeing Grantaire again, not seeing that fire in his eyes when they argue, or that easy grin that he gives the others, the way he’s so easy with affection and he fits in so easily, it’s hard. It’s impossible, because Grantaire has _always_ been there, and Enjolras had been viewing his absence as an inconvenient temporary arrangement that would be resolved in time, and the fact that it might not be temporary is unacceptable.

“You like Grantaire,” Combeferre repeats faintly. “This is a disaster.”

Courfeyrac’s expression falls slightly. “What? No it isn’t, this is _wonderful_. Jehan will have a fit.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre repeats, “do you think Grantaire would appreciate this right now? While he’s getting his life on track?”

There’s a guilty pause, and Courfeyrac’s face falls.

Enjolras looks between them. “What do you mean? Does he… He doesn’t feel the same way, of course he doesn’t.” Grantaire’s hostility speaks for itself, and even before, he only ever showed disdain for Enjolras’s cause. Enjolras is well-acquainted with the shuttered, hurt look on his face when a jab or an insult hit too close to home, looks that he ignored to avoid the guilt.  Why would he ever like Enjolras?

He looks down at his hands, everything in him restless, urging him to do something, _anything_ but sitting there, stewing in his thoughts. He looks up at his friends. “I could convince him,” he states, his voice more assertive than it had been since Grantaire opened that door.

“Oh _no,_ ” Courfeyrac moans. “Crap.”

“I’ll… I’ll-”

“What have I done?” he interrupts, hiding his face in his hands. “You are the least romantic person I know, Enj. You can’t just… _woo_.”

“I will,” Enjolras replies firmly.

Combeferre looks at his textbook mournfully.

* * *

When Enjolras next sees Grantaire, it’s the morning after, and Grantaire is leaving the apartment, a bag slung across his shoulders, and his hair sticking up as though he had frantically finger-combed it. Seeing him again, after realising what the feelings Enjolras had concerning him were building up to, was like a punch in the stomach. But in a good way.

When Grantaire turns around from locking the door, he sees Enjolras straight away, and freezes. “What,” he says, his voice quiet.

Enjolras steps forward. He hadn’t been waiting, he was just gearing up the courage to knock on the door. He holds a cup of coffee out to Grantaire, who takes it gingerly, as though expecting it to explode in his hands. “Where are you going?” he asks casually, trying to catch his eyes.

Grantaire’s blue eyes lock onto Enjolras’s in confusion. “Uh… So I’ve missed something. What’s the date today? Did I hit my head?”

Enjolras gives him an irritated look. “It’s the twenty-sixth. I got you coffee.” He nods at the cup in Grantaire’s hand, extended away from his body carefully, urging him.

His eyes are still wide, but he takes a cautious sip, before pulling a face. “This is terrible. Who drinks their coffee like this?”

“You drink your coffee black, don’t you?”

His eyes narrow. “What are you doing here, Enjolras?”

“I just wanted to see you,” Enjolras answers. He congratulates himself; the sentence is rather suggestive of his feelings, maybe Grantaire will catch on.

Grantaire huffs out a bitter laugh. “Right. You were reminded of my existence last night, and felt guilty?” He doesn’t give Enjolras enough time to answer. “Don’t worry about it, Enjolras, my expectations aren’t that high.” He pushes the cup back in Enjolras’s hand. “I’d rather not be subject to your gross, over-sweetened pity coffee, thanks. I’m late.”

Enjolras tries to grab for his wrist, before remembering himself, and lets Grantaire step past him. “I’ll get it right next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” comes the answer, thrown over his shoulder as a parting shot.

* * *

There’s a next time.

Grantaire should know better than to think that whatever cause Enjolras is set on, he won’t give up, even if it concerns Grantaire.

He looks up to give a customer a whiskey and finds Enjolras standing there, two days since he tried to poison him with coffee, looking like he _didn’t_ get lost and walk into a bar instead of a library or the closest caffeine dealer. Not that Grantaire would know about his addiction to coffee. Not that Grantaire would know anything about Enjolras anymore.

“No,” he groans. “I’ve been on my best behaviour lately. Where’s my _good_ karma?”

The customer next to Enjolras, a regular with a tendency to wax poetic about his wife and her successful business, raises his glass in solidarity. “I feel you, R,” he slurs.

“Shut up, Bern, you have a perfect life.” He forces himself to look into Enjolras’s eyes. They reveal nothing but a general smugness that he knows something Grantaire doesn’t know. “What?”

Enjolras shrugs a shoulder, a small smile on his face. “Bahorel told me you finish work about now.”

Grantaire hands the whiskey to someone on the other side, and when he turns back to Enjolras, he’s settled in a seat. “Right, and you came all the way over here to share that piece of information with me, did you? Did you want applause?”

Enjolras ignores him. “Do you take your coffee black?”

“I’m not answering that. I won’t encourage you to show up at my door with coffee.”

“We’re going for coffee. Now,” he adds, slightly less aggressive than a demand.

Grantaire’s hand slips, and he barely manages to catch a glass before it shatters on the ground. “What the - no! Why the hell are we going for coffee? What did I do?”

“You mean besides ignore me completely?” Enjolras shoots back. He visibly reigns in his annoyance, and under different circumstances, Grantaire would be flattered; he’s never deigned to do so before. “Will you just have coffee with me? It’s not that hard. You just sit there, and drink coffee. A child could do it.”

“You don’t want to give a child coffee,” Bernie says. “They’ll get addicted to caffeine and develop all sorts of growing difficulties.”

“Bernie and Luce want to have kids, he’s been like this all week,” Grantaire explains. “And no, I’m not going to have coffee with you just because _Your Lordship_ orders it. I really don’t need you to be harassing me right now.”

Enjolras frowns at the emphasis on _you_ , but before he can reply, Bernie cuts in, drunkenly slushing his drink across the bar.

“Is this guy harassing you, R? He doesn’t look like a stalker. Do you want me to get rid of him?” Bernie glares at him. “I’ll sort him out.”

Grantaire pats Bernie’s shoulder. “That’s okay, Bernie. You stick to your drink.”

Bernie nods and gives Enjolras another dirty look.

“I’m not stalking you,” he denies heatedly.

“That’s what a stalker would say,” Bernie grumbles.

Grantaire takes his drink away and places it on the other side of the bar, wiping up the mess he left. “Go tell Feuilly about how Luce dances to ACDC.”

Bernie ambles away happily. “So well. She’s great.”

Enjolras takes a few seconds to study him, and Grantaire represses his discomfort at it; he used to crave his attention, but he never knew what to do with it when he got it. The intensity of his eyes on Grantaire hangs like a breath between them, charged and heavy.

“Courfeyrac told me you’ve given up drinking,” he starts. The words hang in the air as though Enjolras had thought them over for a while.

“You never know they’re a traitor until they betray you,” Grantaire mutters. “So what if I am?” He’s defensive, the tension between them growing like miles.

“It’s just great, that’s all,” Enjolras remedies hurriedly. “Isn’t… Isn’t it hard, working at a bar?”

Grantaire grins, knowing it’s more bitter than the one he usually gives him. He raises a glass of whiskey he’s poured for Bern, and downs it in one practised movement.

“What are you-”

“I’m not quitting,” he cuts in calmly. “I still drink. Just, not as much. And never alone.” He looks down at the glass in his hand. “I have Feuilly here to watch me. Is that all you wanted? Asking after my alcoholism? Well, now you know, so you can leave me alone.” It’s as polite of a _fuck off_ as Grantaire will give.

“Why?”

“Because I woke up one morning and decided in a change of habits,” he answers sarcastically. “Go away.”

“You can’t turn down customers.”

“If they _pay_.” Grantaire sighs, and brushes a hand through his hair. He’s suddenly very tired, and coffee seems like an attractive option, though preferably not with Enjolras. “If I go for a coffee with you, will you stop?”

Enjolras doesn’t deny him the right of truth. “No.”

Of course he was going to be stubborn about this. Grantaire doesn’t really need his pity, but he needs a break from saying “no” so much, and it might be good for him. It probably won’t be, but a guy can dream.

“Feuilly,” he calls. Feuilly looks up gratefully from where Bernie is chattering away to him, his gaze landing on Enjolras and narrowing. “I’m gone.”

“Are you sure…?” The end of the question lingers in the air. The answer doesn’t need voicing.

So Grantaire doesn’t answer, just throws his tea towel at him and walks out from behind the bar.

* * *

Grantaire glares at Enjolras. It’s amazing how the tables have turned.

“Will you tell me what’s going on? Do you have, like, a week to live? Is your name Earl and you’re making up for all the shitty things you’ve done? Because ours was a reciprocal relationship, you know.”

Enjolras looks frustrated, staring at Grantaire like he wants to unravel him, and maybe once he could have, but Grantaire is determined to not let that happen. He returns the gaze unflinchingly.

“Why do you have to second guess my motives all the time, R? I just want to spend time with you. That’s not so crazy.”

He looks the same, though it’s noted with disinterest: the same long blonde hair, the same furrowed brow, the same long fingers and straightened posture.

“You called me R,” Grantaire points out. “You never do that.”

“You never leave.”

Here’s the crux of the matter, the root of the problems. He’d expected Enjolras on his doorstep a lot sooner, his eyes bright and annoyed, demanding Grantaire draws up shitty posters or talks to people in bars about The Cause. He had _not_ expected coffee and stalking.

Grantaire leans back in his chair. “Didn’t think you’d give a shit, to be honest. People come and go.”

Enjolras’s mouth twists like he’s tasted something bitter, and Grantaire used to have a sketchbook or two dedicated to that face. “We’re friends,” he states simply.

Grantaire snorts. “We’re not friends. We’ve never _been_ friends.”

“You’ve never been this cruel,” Enjolras shoots back, his jaw clenched. He looks hurt, and Grantaire would feel bad, only he can’t seem to stop himself.

“I’m just picking up your slack.”

Enjolras flinches back, and Grantaire _hates_ that look on his face, the wounded, shocked, widening of the eyes. Grantaire feels as though he’s just bruised a statue, and tore the skin of his knuckles in the process.

“I want us to be friends,” Enjolras says quietly, after a long, awkward silence. “And I’m sorry you feel we aren’t. So if you could stop being such an asshole-”

“Oh, _I’m_ the asshole? You sought me out, not the other way around, Apollo.” The nickname slips out accidently, and Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“I’m trying, Grantaire. I’m trying to get to know you better and if you insist on being difficult when I know you’re doing it on purpose, then obviously  _you’re_ the asshole.”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment more, and despite his best efforts, he can feel a smile tugging insistently on his lips. “I get it. I’m your new cause, aren’t I? Have you created a powerpoint presentation to show to the others about how you’re going to make us friends?”

Enjolras gives him a disdainful look, but it isn’t as harsh as Grantaire remembers it to be. “My causes are beyond myself and my relationships with other people-”

“Yeah, whatever,” Grantaire interrupts with a wave of the hand. He stands up, taking his wallet out. When he takes out a couple of notes, Enjolras frowns.

“I’m paying.”

Grantaire ignores him and drops the money on the table. “Thanks for the company. And the stalking. I shouldn’t thank you for that, it’s enabling,” he adds after a pause.

“If you gave me your number I wouldn’t have to stalk you,” Enjolras mutters grumpily.

Grantaire lets out a startled laugh in spite of himself. “Smooth. Get it off one of the others and warn me next time.” He leaves before he can do something stupid, like stay.

* * *

Jehan is modeling nude when Enjolras walks in the door.

“ _Christ_ , a little warning would have been nice,” he calls out, looking resolutely at Jehan’s face.

Jehan grins, and Courfeyrac peeks out from behind them, his camera in his hands, looking pleased with himself.

“‘Ferre wouldn’t model for me, so I broke up with him and wooed Jehan into taking their clothes off.”

“My punishment is to listen to Courf wax poetic about Jehan’s butt,” Combeferre adds drily, sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper.

“It’s a perky butt,” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras nods absently, his mind still in that cafe, in the moments after Grantaire had left. “Yes it is.”

Jehan giggles. “A ringing endorsement. How is your courting going?”

Enjolras allows himself to groan in answer, and slumps into the couch next to Combeferre, jostling him slightly. “He thinks I’m stalking him.”

Combeferre snorts. “No he doesn’t. He’s just saying that to get rid of you.”

“It nearly worked,” Enjolras says mournfully. “Some drunk guy offered to punch me.”

Courfeyrac laughs, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “No way! You went to the Corinth? And Feuilly didn’t kick you out?”    

Enjolras frowns at him. “Feuilly likes me.”

“Feuilly is also very protective of Grantaire. He views him as, like, a little brother or something. Maybe even a son.” He pulls a face. “No, that’s too weird. Definitely some family figure. Maybe an uncle?”

Combeferre sighs and hands Enjolras the paper, giving his boyfriend his attention, which Courfeyrac eats up immediately. “Are you going to put Jehan out of their misery and let them get dressed?”

Courfeyrac looks up at Jehan, who is starting to hunch in on themself. “Shit, man, yeah. Sorry.”

Jehan gives him a small smile and starts pulling on clothes, looking at Enjolras as they do so. “So is Grantaire being an ass about it?”

“That’s an understatement,” Enjolras murmurs, his eyes scanning the paper. “Why would they waste their ink printing the headline ‘Pool pooper strikes again’?”

Courfeyrac scrambles up and snatches the paper from him. “No way. _Shit_ . The newspaper industry is _dying_.”

“Or maybe the depravity and oppression of this “pool pooper” is worth informing the public about,” Enjolras says, snatching the paper back. “We must fight injustice.”

“Combat the crap,” Courfeyrac adds. “Fight the feces.”

“Where’s my cardigan?” Jehan interrupts.

Courfeyrac grabs it from where he’s sitting on it and throws it at Jehan’s face. “So, Enjolras, because he’s seen the power of true love finally, loves us enough to shout dinner at the Thai place down the road.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “That place made Joly almost pass out from the lack of hygiene.”

There’s a knock on the door, which Enjolras ignores in favour of convincing Courfeyrac and Jehan to give the vegan place on the corner a chance, if not for him, then for their arteries.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre calls out. He sounds different, and when Enjolras looks up, he’s alarmed, leaning away from the door. “It’s Éponine.”

Enjolras stands up and makes his way to the door, Combeferre taking the chance to retreat as soon as he can, jumping into Courfeyrac and Jehan’s conversation.

Éponine looks pissed off, which is terrifying enough without the leather jacket and combat boots.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, taking a step back and allowing Enjolras to step into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “About R.”

Enjolras nods, because Grantaire is almost all they have in common apart from Les Amis, and he had come to the conclusion himself.

“You need to back off.” The warning in her tone is protective, and her eyes are dark, uninviting. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he answers. “Just coffee. Is it so bad that I want to spend time with him?”

Éponine looks at him like he’s stupid. “ _Yes_. When have you ever shown the slightest bit of friendliness to him, Enjolras? Everyone sees it. You despise him, his drinking, and his opinions.”

He feels his face growing hot, the remark stinging. “I don’t-”

“And then you suddenly want to hang around him more when he’s just getting better and realised he’s better off _without you_.” She’s fuming now, and Enjolras has only ever heard of her protective streak and never witnessed it until now. Her words are designed to wound, and they do. He brushes a hand through his hair.

“He… He thinks that?”

She swears under her breath. “Why can’t you just leave him alone? He’s been doing great.”

Enjolras knows he can’t, not until he at least find out what Grantaire thinks of him. And even then - Enjolras doesn’t want Grantaire to just be another named passed between mouths in the small talk of Les Amis meetings. He doesn’t want to keep passing strangers in the street and double-checking that they’re strangers and not _him_.

But he doesn’t want to be cruel, either, and if Grantaire really thinks that Enjolras is bad for him -

“I want to help,” Enjolras says stubbornly.

Éponine huffs out a bitter snort. “You want to help? Then stay away. He just got over you, he’s moved past all the bad shit in his life, and he’s doing fine without you expressing your goddamn disapproval all the time.”

Enjolras’s breath stalls for a second. “He got over me?” he asks, his voice quieter than he means it to be. He’s heard wrong, surely.

She widens her eyes and takes a step back. “I was _not_ meant to say that. Shit.”

“What do you mean, ‘he got over me’? What the hell does that _mean_?”

She glances at the stairs with longing, growing uncomfortable. “I uh…” She scratches at her neck before sighing. “Look, Grantaire… He was- he cared for you. He said stupid shit to get your attention and got drunk after you cut him down in your fights.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No. No, he didn’t… He couldn’t have _liked_ me, Éponine.”

She winces. “Everyone knew. It was something we, uh, bonded over. So, yeah. He was gone over you, which made it a million times worse when you guys would fight.”

He wants to sit down on the floor, he wants to bury himself under his covers and go over every goddamn interaction they had, searching his memory for clues because Éponine must be _mistaken_. Enjolras would have noticed, or Grantaire would have done something.

“Does he...?”

Éponine sets her mouth in a thin line. “Not anymore,” she states firmly, and there’s pride in her voice. “He got over you. Took a lot of one - Are you okay?”

All those comments Enjolras had made, those _stupid_ , harsh insults in the heat and frustration of the moment - and Grantaire would have taken them to heart. Something in Enjolras’s chest hurts, and it’s probably the guilt flooding in.

His throat is dry, but he manages to get out, “I need to go.”

She holds her hands up passively. “Sure, I just… Enjolras, you don’t look so hot.” There’s a pause. “You don’t...Shit.”

“Shit,” Enjolras agrees weakly.

* * *

Grantaire is not okay. He’s _great_.

Prolonged exposure to Enjolras is never a good thing for him, and even if he’s gotten over his whole “love” thing, it still rattles him to have Enjolras stare at him like he _isn’t_ something to be despised and pitied. So he phoned Bahorel, who messaged Marius, and somehow ended up with two slightly tipsy art students from his theory class in his bedroom, trying, and failing, to make out with him. He’s pretty certain he made out with Marius, but he’s doing a good job of repressing the memory.

Camille is giggling so much that Grantaire hardly hears the knock at the door, except it’s insistent, hard knocking, the kind that is used for emergencies.

He untangles himself from her and Theo clumsily, pleasantly buzzed but not drunk. He’s developed a habit of cutting himself off as he reaches the happy-drunk stage, before he gets in too deep and becomes what Bossuet has aptly named “depressive, melancholy, party-pooper drunk”.

As long as his fingers have someone to play on, they itch somewhat less for a bottle, but he can still feel the need under his skin, like a drawn out headache that only grows more painful the longer it goes ignored.

He licks his lips as he walks to the door, anxious to open it before Joly or Bossuet have to, tasting Marius and pulling a face, resolving to never go drinking with a lightweight again, because nothing good comes of it.

Enjolras is on the other side. Grantaire’s scowl is becoming exclusive to him.

“Didn’t I tell you to warn me?” he snaps, his bad mood only skin-deep; it’s hard to be annoyed when he can still hear Camille giggling.

Enjolras stands there, as rigid as ever, his cheeks tinged pink as his eyes travel southward. Grantaire looks down; he’s lost his shirt somehow, which shows off the tattoo of a feather on his hip, his very first tattoo. He must be blushing in second-hand embarrassment, because Grantaire knows that while he’s okay to look at, Enjolras wouldn’t be attracted to him if they were the last people alive.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Grantaire asks. “Because I’m sort of busy right now-”

“I needed to see you,” Enjolras blurts. Something in his tone is off, and Grantaire takes in the red cheeks and the disheveled hair.

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s bitter. “Nothing’s happened. I… I want to talk to you about something.” He bites his lip. “It’s rather delicate.”

Grantaire frowns at him, taking a step closer. “Are you sure-”

“Whoa, Michelangelo’s David,” Theo says, coming up behind Grantaire. Camille’s lipstick is smeared on his neck, and on her face. Grantaire cringes internally.

“No, he’s prettier,” Camille says, planting her chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Like… Pompeo’s Achilles?”

“Fiammingo,” Grantaire murmurs, trying to decipher the myriad of emotions that pass over Enjolras’s face as he takes in Grantaire’s guests. The situation has spiralled out of his control and he’s struggling to find a way to fix it.

“Apollo?” Theo leans against the doorway. “I suppose. Is he joining us?” He looks at Enjolras hopefully.

Grantaire nudges him. “No,” he answers firmly, not even entertaining the thought.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says tightly. “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Camille draws Theo away with another giggle. “We’ll wait,” she promises.

“I won’t,” Theo warns over his shoulder. Grantaire watches them go, if only to avoid the look that must be on Enjolras’s face. He’s been lectured before on his sexual promiscuity, and it’s not a conversation he’d be willing to live through again.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras clears his throat. “With them?”

Grantaire turns back to him, and raises an eyebrow. “Playing cards. What do you want to talk about?”

His jaw is clenched and his eyes burning, and Grantaire has equal parts missed and not missed that particular expression. It had always been a worthy challenge to transfer all that annoyance and emotion onto paper.

“I-” He stops himself. “It doesn’t matter. You should get back to…” He waves a hand toward Grantaire’s closed bedroom door.

Grantaire’s frown doesn’t disappear. “Have you got a problem? With them?” He’s more confused than confrontational, but Enjolras bristles anyway.

“ _No_ , what you, uh, _do_ in your life is none of my business.”

“Really? Because you look really freaked out right now. Do I need Musichetta to give you a talk about conditioned prejudices against threesomes and polygamy?”

Enjolras scowls. Grantaire’s fingers itch for touch, or a pen, or a bottle.

“Shut up,” he snaps. “It’s not that.”

Grantaire nods slowly. “You look like I’ve done something wrong. I’ve done nothing, I swear.”

“That’s the problem,” he mutters.

“You lost me at ‘I need you’.” Grantaire moves past the sentence briskly, not wanting to ponder the impossible implications of those particular words in that order.

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “This was a mistake, coming here.” He turns to leave.

Grantaire reaches out, grabbing his wrist. The pulse under his fingers beats fast, in time with his own, and his fingers tighten slightly. “Why _did_ you come here? In the middle of the night?” Everything Enjolras has been doing lately has confused him, but he would be satisfied with the answer to this one question.

Enjolras avoids his eyes, which is unlike him. “I wanted to see if it was true,” he replies softly, weighing on every word as though it was important to the meaning of the sentence, as though Grantaire was meant to grasp what Enjolras didn’t say.

“See if what was true?”

His blue eyes look directly at Grantaire’s, and he can’t look away. “That you’ve moved on. From me.” He pulls his wrist away, and Grantaire’s fingers fall on empty air. “And it seems you have.”

Grantaire can’t speak for a moment; he licks his lips and shakes the thoughts free from his mind, but they curl around his neck and tighten the air around him. “You… Why do you care?” His voice is shaky and he works to strengthen it. “Is this some shitty attempt to humiliate me? To get close to me and see if the rumours were _true_?”

Enjolras is shaking his head, with that condescending smile that tells his opponents they’re way off-base, but Grantaire continues on.

“And now - what? You’re disappointed. If you were trying to uncover my feelings by being nice to me, it didn’t work, because I fell for you when you were cruel to me, Enjolras.” He gives him a bitter savage smile. “And I moved on because you’re cruel to me. This… This is the furthest you’ve gone to make a fool out of me.”

He steps back into his apartment, and Enjolras makes a move to follow him, his eyes wide with horror and maybe Grantaire’s imagining that guilt but it’s what he _deserves_.

He closes the door in his face.

His thoughts scratch and itch, and his fingers curl around the phantom neck of a bottle. His breath is shaky; he can’t drown himself to a hangover just yet.

Enjolras turns the handle. “Grantaire. _Grantaire_ , open the damn door. You’re wrong, you’ve got it wrong. I _swear_ -”

Grantaire turns and walks to his bedroom, hearing Camille’s giggles and seeing those hopeful looks on Enjolras’s face when he had invited Grantaire for coffee like they could have been _friends_.

Grantaire snorts out loud.

“R?” Bossuet calls out quietly, poking his head out his door. He glances briefly at the front door. “Are you-”

“I’m fine,” he answers, his voice a degree more aggressive than he meant it to be. “Can you deal with that?”

Bossuet nods, and Grantaire slips into his room. He could drown himself in Camille’s laughs and Theo’s groans, and hope that his fingers will be sated and his mind quieted. It’s a fool’s hope.

* * *

Éponine is standing in Grantaire’s room, wringing her hands anxiously, and two seconds from a panic attack.

“I’ll call Jehan,” Grantaire offers. “Or ‘Parnasse. Ép, come-”

“No,” she answers shortly. “No, I can deal with this on my own.”

Grantaire studies her for a moment. “Can you?” His tone isn’t antagonising, but urging, and it makes her pause with thought.

“I don’t have a job,” she answers, and her voice shakes slightly. “No job, no qualifications - I don’t even have an apartment, R! I… I’m living with ‘Parnasse, and he isn’t good with kids.”

Grantaire, taking in her stressed voice and blank face, stands up and crosses the room, grabbing her hands. “He loves you, doesn’t he?” She nods hesitantly. “Then he’ll fucking _deal_ , Ép. He loves Gav and Zelm, and it’s not like they need a lot of looking after.”

Éponine’s eyes drop down to her feet, and she looks tired, she’s looked tired since a year ago when she stormed into his apartment and demanded that he “lawyer up” so she can gain custody of Gavroche and Azelma. He refused, obviously, since he never passed the bar and no one is actually meant to know that he studied law. It’s scary how she found out, and she still won’t tell him.

“The point,” Grantaire continues, “is that you fucking _won_.”

She grins, and it grows steadily wider. “I did. I won.” She pauses. “I fucking _won_ , R.” She hugs him tightly. “Thank you,” she says, her breath brushing against his ear.

“All I did was throw you at Marius,” he replies. “And that didn’t turn out so well, did it?”

She draws back and whacks him on the shoulder. “I’m trying to thank you, asshole.”

There’s a light tap on the door, and it opens before Grantaire can call out. Joly pokes his head through. “Enjolras again. Do you want to talk to him? This time it’s important.”

Grantaire has his ‘no’ prepared. He’s gotten rather fond of the word, actually. “Important how?”

Joly shrugs. “He needs you to talk to some people. For this gentrification protest.”

Éponine pulls a face and falls onto Grantaire’s bed. “Why can’t he just serenade you with Marvin Gaye and a boombox?”

Grantaire holds his hand out for the phone, Joly hands it over with a sympathetic look.

“What do you need me to do?” Grantaire asks, his voice tired, his voice sick of how many times he’s said that phrase in different variations. It’s a bad habit, doing anything Enjolras wants him to.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. His voice is soft, and his breath blows into the receiver slightly. He sounds relieved.

“What do you need me to do?” Grantaire repeats. “I’m busy at the moment, so if you could just get this over with, that would be fine.” His voice is cold, bitter, as it tells the lie, and Joly and Éponine both give him knowing looks.

Enjolras sighs. “I just… I need you - I need you to talk to some people. About the protest. You know heaps of people, and I just thought… I thought you might help. Maybe.”

Grantaire snorts. “Even though you’re a complete asshole?”

He makes a noise of frustration. “ _You’re_ an asshole. You won’t let me explain wha-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grantaire interrupts. There’s a pause. “Look, I’ll drop a few words to people here and there, but gentrification isn’t really something that pops up in everyday conversation and I can’t just go around throwing pamphlets at people like you do.”

Éponine snickers.

“Do you even know what we’re protesting against?” Enjolras asks, that familiar hint of condescension in his tone, an old friend. “You haven’t been to the meetings for a month, Grantaire.”

“Everyone knows what’s going on, Enjolras. Rich people are buying up a whole block and kicking out poor people to turn it into a suburban nightmare, it’s been in the news. It’s not like the issue is monopolised by your little meetings.”

Joly holds out a finger sternly, warning Grantaire to keep his cool and not start a fight. It’s hard, though, when all that’s going through Grantaire’s mind is what Enjolras _did_ , how he found out and played with Grantaire, and maybe it was just for curiosity’s sake, but it still sucks, and it’s behind every thought he’s had since Enjolras found out.

“Just _come back_ ,” Enjolras groans. “ _Please_ , R. We need you at these meetings and I’m sick of pretending that we don’t.”

Joly sighs and sits on the bed next to Éponine, looking over her shoulder at a sketchbook from his art class.

“I’ve heard it’s pretty peaceful without me, actually,” Grantaire replies conversationally. “Or at least, my Thursday evenings are more peaceful. Is that all you needed?”

“I need _you_ ,” he blurts.

There’s a silence, and Éponine and Joly straighten at the expression on Grantaire’s face, whatever it was.

“ _I_ need you,” he says, “to stop. Stop calling me, stop bringing me coffee. I’ll tell people about your damn rally, don’t worry.”

“Grantaire-”

“Good _bye_ , Enjolras.” His tone is final, in the way that he’s shutting a door, and locking it, and never looking at it again. He’s burning a bridge, and he’s not going to go through this again.

He ends the call before Enjolras can reply, and tosses the phone to Joly.

“I don’t deserve this,” he mutters. “I don’t fucking deserve this.”

Éponine pats the patch of free bed next to her. “No, you don’t. Braid my hair.”

Grantaire does, his fingers shaky, but deft, and they twist Éponine’s hair in lieu of curling around the neck of a bottle.

“So are you going to talk to Montparnasse?” he asks her, his voice casual and interested. Or maybe it’s desperate, maybe it’s hysterical. He doesn’t know and he trusts Joly and Éponine to not call him out on it.

Éponine shrugs. “I could just surprise him.”

“What, just throw the kids in his apartment and wait for him to figure it out?”

Joly straightens from where he’s texting. “You have Gavroche and Azelma?”

Grantaire finishes off the braid and pulls his hair out of its bun (he hadn’t had time for Musichetta to cut it lately), tying her braid up. His fingers tap against her shoulders in a frantic rhythm.

Éponine hums, reaching back to feel the results of Grantaire’s handiwork. “Just got the call from my lawyer this morning.” Her fingers close over his. “Are you okay?”

“I need a drink,” he admits, because he promised to always tell her when he needed a drink.

“That bastard,” she mutters. “What did he say to you?”

He takes a moment, until he’s sure he can talk steadily. “Nothing big. Just, you know… Begging me to come back. Which doesn’t make sense, Ép. I’m no good there, it’s why I left.”

Joly shakes his head, and Grantaire feels the movement against his shoulder. “No way, R. It’s _boring_. Courf and Bahorel got so bored they fell asleep on each other. None of us can agree on anything.”

Éponine hums. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a mess. Enjolras looks like a l-”

“I don’t really want to know,” Grantaire interrupts firmly.

They all fall quiet, and it feels as though they’re waiting for him to say something.

“He said he needs me,” he confesses softly. The words sound unreal, said out loud, and he finds himself doubting them.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Joly asks carefully.

“ _Yes_ ,” he answers. “Of course it’s a bad thing! He doesn’t need me, Joly, he doesn’t even like me. He has _never_ taken an interest in me before, and suddenly now, when I’ve gotten over him, he’s buying me coffee and turning up at the bar. And then -” He swallows the lump in his throat, ending his sentence there. He can’t make sense of anything, let alone the words in his mind.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone’?”

Grantaire musters a snort. “He always knew what he had with me.” He turns onto his back, looking up at the white ceiling. “He sees me for exactly what I am.” _A useless drunk_ , is what he doesn’t have to say. _A cynical, hopeless excuse of a person._ The words are reminiscent of one fight or another, they’re seared into his brain and he’s not letting the burns heal easily.

He takes a breath, and draws it out slowly. His mind latches on to the first subject it can think of. “Do you need help moving Gav and Zelm in?”

Éponine scoffs. “I need help convincing ‘Parnasse.” She turns to a hurried sketch of Azelma, her finger tapping lightly on it. “Can I have this?”

Grantaire reaches across her and rips the page out. The other side of the paper is a hand, and he can’t remember whose hand it was but its fingers are gripping the neck of a bottle and he swallows down on a shaky exhale and the tug in his chest.

“I think you’re the only one who could get him to accommodate two children under ten in his apartment,” Joly says.

Éponine sighs. “I feel like a mother.” She sounds terrified.

Joly holds his phone up. “I texted ‘Chetta and Bossuet. No one is leaving this bed today.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Grantaire tells him. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”

The horrified look on Joly’s face prompts a grin from Éponine and Grantaire both.

* * *

Enjolras throws himself into his latest cause with terrifying vigor, according to Courfeyrac. But he thinks it’s warranted, considering the untimely distraction he’d had for the past month.

He hardly notices when Combeferre places a sandwich next to his elbow while he’s typing up a draft of his speech for Lamarque to approve.

He only notices the unholy amount of pepper in it halfway through eating it.

He glares at Courfeyrac over his laptop screen with watering eyes, and Courfeyrac shrugs, handing him a glass of water. “You need a break.”

“So you poison me?” Enjolras rasps, downing the whole glass in a second.

“Yes,” comes the reply. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Don’t tell Joly.”

Combeferre stands in the doorway, his arms folded and his expression telling Enjolras that he is an unashamed accomplice. “We could talk about what’s bothering you, but I don’t think you’ll go for that.”

Enjolras glances back at the screen, his mouth still on fire. “I’m just busy.”

Combeferre grunts, and Courfeyrac sighs.

“Is this about what that guy said on that video?”

“He was _wrong_ ,” Enjolras insists hotly. “He didn’t even bother to check his sources, and his so-called facts were blatantly biased because he’s some over-privileged assh-”

“It’s about Grantaire,” Combeferre states shooting Courfeyrac a look. “Obviously.”

Enjolras takes a stabilising breath. “It’s not,” he denies. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.” The jumble of emotions that occurred when his name was mentioned irritate Enjolras, and he frowns at the screen, trying to block his friends out by force of will.

“Enjolras, for the past week you’ve written five essays that are due at the end of the semester, and two of them are just rants about the despotism of royalty in Disney villains. I was impressed,” Combeferre admits, “until your paragraphs started ending in a string of _fuck Disney_.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “I posted them on the internet. You have a pretty big fanbase.”

They both ignore him. “Your bed hasn’t been slept in for three nights, and you smell.”

“So,” Courfeyrac announces, “I put sleeping pills in your sandwich.”

Enjolras looks at him, horrified. “You didn’t.”

He earns himself a grin and a nod. “It’ll kick in soon. And then I get to tuck you into bed and stroke your hair and sing you to sleep-”

“You’re _not_ doing that-”

“-and in the morning, ‘Ferre’s cooking us pancakes.”

Enjolras gives his laptop a mournful look. “But this rally is next week. I need to prepare.”

Combeferre walks over and shuts the laptop, lifting it off Enjolras’s lap. “It’s our rally too,” he reminds him. “We’ll help you.”

* * *

There’s a light, hesitant tap on Enjolras’s door, and it wakes him up.

He’s not normally a light sleeper, but his sleep has been fitful at best lately, the images his subconscious plays a repetition of all the ways his rally could go wrong, of Grantaire slamming the door in his face, of bloody noses and wrists decorated with metal cuffs.

There’s some low whispering, which sounds like Courfeyrac, as Enjolras makes his way to the door, and when he opens it, Grantaire’s arm is raised as though he was going to knock again.

Courfeyrac beams at Enjolras before walking away.

Grantaire looks nervous, and he offers Enjolras a tiny smile that Enjolras’s exhausted brain spends too long focusing on.

“I came to apologise,” he says. “Actually, I was bullied into it. I do _want_ to apologise,” he adds quickly. “I just-”

Enjolras grabs his arm and pulls him into the room, shutting the door behind him. “I don’t see the need for it,” he tells Grantaire, focusing on a bit of fluff on his grey cardigan, right by the shoulder.

“Well I do, because you’re looking at me like I just kicked your puppy. I don’t kick puppies, that’s terrible. You don’t even _own_ a puppy.”

Enjolras looks up at his face, and Grantaire’s looking straight at him. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like an asshole lately, and there isn’t any excuse to slam doors in your face or hang up on you.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “And I don’t think you were kind to me because you were playing with my feelings.” He takes a step towards the door.

Enjolras brushes a hand through his hair. “I really don’t need an apology, Grantaire,” he says. “What I said, on the phone… it was uncalled for.” He swallows down on the words his memory triggers up. “I shouldn’t have crossed your boundaries.”

He blinks at Enjolras. “Why did you?”

The answer is complex enough to warrant a moment of silence while Enjolras thinks of how to put his feelings into words. “I missed you. You just left, and I had no reason to ask how you were or where you were, and I hated it.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “You’ve never cared before, Enjolras. You wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“I was scared,” Enjolras admits. Grantaire snorts, and he narrows his eyes. “I _was_. Of you. Because I’m not used to being challenged by someone that isn’t an idiot, and sometimes I’m terrified that you’re right, and that all of my effort won’t make difference.”

“Enjolras…”

“But I’m mostly scared of how easy it would be to fall in love with you,” Enjolras continues quietly. His heart is beating louder than ever, and it’s almost drowning his words out, which somehow makes it easier to say them. “And it hurts that you don’t feel the same, but I respect that.”

Grantaire goes still. “What?” he chokes out.

Enjolras doesn’t think he can say it a second time. “I would still like to help, of course, since you’re getting sober, but Éponine said-”

Grantaire reaches out. It’s a quick movement but Grantaire stares at his fingers wrapped around Enjolras’s arm with hesitation. “Enjolras,” he says firmly. His face is on the edge of something new and frightening, and his fingers tighten. “Have you seen yourself?”

Enjolras doesn’t pull away, but he drops his eyes. “I’m well aware of how attractive people find me, thanks,” he replies bitterly.

“No, I mean… You attract people, and it’s got nothing to do with your looks. You try to get people to listen to what you have to say, to pay attention to you.” His hands are moving, gesturing with every word he says, and his eyes are bright. Enjolras can feel himself blushing; he’s never heard anyone talk about him like this, and he isn’t sure he wants it to stop. “You’re wonderful. I couldn’t get over you if I tried.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “And I, uh, tried.”

“What are you saying?” Enjolras asks, because he’s picked up on what Grantaire is trying to tell him but it seems too good to be true, not after all the time he spent resigning himself to the fact that he would never return Enjolras’s feelings.

“I’m saying that this whole time I’ve been lying to myself. I thought if I stopped going to the Musain, and stopped seeing you, it would be easier to get over you, but it wasn’t. So if you really mean what you said-”

“Yes,” Enjolras interrupts on an exhale. He steps forward. “I mean it.”

The smile on Grantaire’s face, though small and somewhat shy, is familiar and is blinding.

There’s a cooing noise from outside the door, followed by an “ _ow_ ”, and Enjolras is the one to reach out this time, because it’s only logical to curl his hand around Grantaire’s neck and brush their noses together.

Grantaire’s breath is shaky, but his hands find Enjolras’s hips and they close the gap.

The chaste press of lips quickly develops into something deeper, more intimate, because Enjolras never thought he could have _this_ , never knew it would feel like sleeping in the sun or coming home, and he can’t get enough of it. Pulling back for breath is incredibly inconvenient, but when Enjolras opens his eyes, Grantaire’s eyes are wide and dark, and his hair mussed from Enjolras burying his fingers in it. It’s a vision that he could - and wishes to - get used to.

“You-”

Enjolras kisses him again, because he’s pretty sure Grantaire fried his brain and he wouldn’t be able to talk coherently. He nips at Grantaire’s lower lip lightly, and when he gets a moan in return, he doesn’t expect Grantaire to place his hands on his shoulders only to firmly pull away.

“Give me a second,” Grantaire says breathlessly. His finger brushes against Enjolras’s cheek and he leans slightly into the touch. “Are you drunk, or high, or delirious?”

Enjolras stops holding his smile back. “Not as far as I know.”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You _were_ just drugged.”

“Grantaire, I’ve been trying to _woo_ you for days,” Enjolras tells him, a slightly incredulous laugh pushing past his lips. “Have you not noticed? At all?”

“ _Woo_ me? No one calls it wooing anymore, and even if they did, buying me crappy coffee is a poor attempt at wooing. Did you even try?”

Enjolras glares at him without any real heat. “I don’t have much experience in dating.”

This brings a small, gentle smile to Grantaire’s lips, possibly one of Enjolras’s favourites, and for once it’s directed at _him_ . Grantaire’s hands find his waist again and he presses them closer until their foreheads touch. “Oh, in that case, it was a _very_ sophisticated wooing. Your prowess is noted, Cupid’s bow couldn’t hope to match your skills. In wooing.” His laugh is a gentle breath and Enjolras closes his eyes.

“You’re never going to let this go,” he murmurs. “Courfeyrac said it first.” He can’t stay annoyed when he’s feeling so many other, more important emotions. Having Grantaire like this, pressed close and a breath away from his lips, is at once terrifying, exciting, comforting, and somehow familiar.

Grantaire pulls away again, and Enjolras is left bereft of him, again. He wonders if it will always be this: a game of chase, Grantaire always evading him whenever he’s caught.

He gets a press of lips to his forehead, quick and tender, before Grantaire steps away entirely. “Apparently, you’re busy,” he says.

Enjolras frowns at the words. “Seriously?”

Grantaire smirks. “You have a rally to plan, and a world to save. I would hate to get in your way.”

Enjolras reaches out to him, but draws back reluctantly. His gaze is drawn to his laptop; he’s not happy about it.

He would prefer to kiss Grantaire more, to share previously unknown details about their lives across a single breath between the smallest gap of their bodies. He wants to measure how long it would take for one of them to grab the other’s hand while sitting across a table from each other.

Grantaire’s hand is on the doorknob, and he hesitates. “After the rally, we could gra- uh, get - have dinner. Somewhere. If you want?”

Enjolras stares at his laptop a moment longer, before brushing a hand through his hair. “Or we could go out for breakfast now,” he suggests, though it’s more of a demand. He looks around for his keys and wallet, but Grantaire holds up a hand to stop him.

“ _Or_ ,” he replies, “you could have a much-needed shower-”

“- _hey_ -”

“-and we stay here and eat Combeferre’s pancakes.” His eyes look brighter as he suggests it. “Of course, we would be subjecting ourselves to humiliation at the hands of our friends, who have been outside the door this whole time.”

There’s a rustle from behind the door, and it opens to reveal Courfeyrac and Combeferre, one grinning sheepishly and the other regarding them both innocently.

“I’m in favour of Grantaire’s idea,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, the shower sounds magnificent. ‘Ferre, go make pancakes.”

* * *

“You know,” Grantaire starts, “I came to support you.”

Enjolras nods morosely. “I know.”

“I supported you.”

“I _know_.”

Grantaire grins, and then winces. “I got punched in the face for you.”

Enjolras scowls at him and presses the bag of frozen peas harder against his skin, causing him to hiss in pain. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“I wouldn’t even brag about that,” Gavroche pipes up from where he’s sitting on the couch, bent over an iPod. “It kinda looks pathetic.”

“Hey, shut up. You look pathetic,” Grantaire grumbles. “What are you even doing here?”

Gavroche lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Ép and Montparnasse are fighting again.”

Grantaire pulls a face. “Ew. Spare me the sordid details. Where’s Zelm?”

“Climbing up your fire escape.”

Enjolras’s fingers are gentle as the probe the cut on his forehead. They shake slightly, either the remnants of adrenaline, or worry. Grantaire grabs them and presses a small kiss to each one reverently. “Your rally was a success.”

“You were punched in the face,” comes the reply, and Enjolras’s lips tilt down again.

“I love how you like to focus on that and not the fact that I decked him back,” Grantaire grumbles, tugging Enjolras until he’s standing between his legs. “And that happened after the rally. No one saw it.”

A hint of a smile starts up on Enjolras’s face. “Gav videoed it.”

“I’ll go viral,” Grantaire counters. “Point is, you got your voice heard, you got the people to spare it a thought or two, and - if you’re lucky - you might even get a skeevy politician to do something about it.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “That’s very idealistic of you, R.”

“Yeah, I was lying through my teeth.”

A thumb starts to brush back and forth across the tender skin around Grantaire’s eye. “Will you come to the meeting tomorrow?”

“I’d just be a nuisance.” His voice hardly needs to be louder than a whisper, since Enjolras’s face has been leaning closer with every sentence. His fingers run down his sides, gently, barely touching, painting his promises and declarations.

“You wouldn’t,” Enjolras insists.

“A distraction.”

Enjolras hums an agreement at that, and presses a chaste kiss to Grantaire’s lips, still stroking the skin around his eye. “You’re always a distraction.”

Gavroche sighs. “Believe it or not, you guys aren’t even as bad as Ép and ‘Parnasse.”

**Author's Note:**

> I added Grantaire's libido because for some reason it gets overlooked in fan fiction. Kudos and comments make the world go around, so if you liked this story, please spread the love :)  
> My tumblr is over [here](http://desperauxx.tumblr.com) if you wanted to talk about the barricade babes ^.^


End file.
